The Argosy — page 356: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The White Witch. 333 “Such a bawling and squeaking as one may hear even yet in some out-of-the-way places where the congregation, such as it is, still has it all its own way with the singing. I call it a disgrace to divine service.” ‘‘T must say I like to hear good singing in church or anywhere else,” said Mr. Mayne. ‘‘ When I am in London, if the opera is open I always go to it. Youused to be a great loverof music, Hunt. Do you still attend the opera much when you are in town—or concerts ? I remember you and I heard Jenny Lind for the first time together.” “T have never been to any public entertainment since my boy William died,” answered Sir William, gravely. ‘“ I do not go where I am likely to hear singing.” * But why, Hunt?” asked Mr. Thornhill. “Well, you may judge how fond of singing I am now, when I tell you that the most beautiful voice I ever heard, not excepting Patti’s or Jenny Lind’s, was the voice of the woman who tricked and led my boy to his death.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Colonel Underwood, who was partly a stranger to the history. ‘‘ How was that, Hunt ?” “‘Tt was in Rome,” said Sir William ; “ about two years anda half ago, you know—rather more now. A mother and daughter were there—at least, I think they were mother and daughter, but I am not even yet acquainted with all the details. They “Were they gentlewomen?” interrupted the Colonel. “Passing for such—adventuresses, most probably, under the rose. They lured my poor son on and on, with their cards and their wiles and their sweet singing. Such a magnificent voice it was! I had never, as it seemed to me, heard one to equal it—and I should know it to-morrow, were I to hear it again. They lured William on, I say, and—and murdered him in the end.” Godfrey, who had listened in silence, rose from table and staggered to the window. A most awful dread had crept in upon him. The air was suddenly hot as a furnace, the walls were falling upon him, his brain was bursting ; his face was wet and ghastly as he stared out into the night. Rome—two years and a half ago—most beautiful voice—their avoidance of Sir William !—what did it all mean? The gentlemen at table looked round at him. What was amiss? It couldn’t be the wine—he had not taken much of it. Oh, only the heated room ! “That young Mayne must be a milksop!” whispered the Rector of Cheston to the neighbour at his elbow. As the large, closed carriage rolled homewards over the few miles between Goule Park and Croxham Abbey, Mr. Mayne took the opportunity to rally his son upon his newly developed delicacy. ‘I think it is rather amusing, Godfrey, after your indignation at EONMIE OO KS (E() m